


Pain is a Well-Intentioned Weatherman

by samiam711



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: And That’s Okay, Angst, Brief suicidal ideation, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nightwing Volume 2 Issue 093, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, he’s just not a man of many words, lines referenced, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29533029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samiam711/pseuds/samiam711
Summary: It was cold. Not the kind that could be cured by curling up in a blanket by the fire. Or by the touch of the ones you loved the most. It was a piercing chill that froze Dick from the inside out, immobilizing his limbs and numbing his mind.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 1
Kudos: 62





	Pain is a Well-Intentioned Weatherman

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, my brain thought this up at 1am... enjoy?
> 
> (Please heed the tags)
> 
> Title is from the song “Touch” by Sleeping At Last

It was cold. Not the kind that could be cured by curling up in a blanket by the fire. Or by the touch of the ones you loved the most. It was a piercing chill that froze Dick from the inside out, immobilizing his limbs and numbing his mind. 

If he focused on clearing the fog long enough, he could almost feel the coarse concrete beneath his back and the rain beating down from above. He decided the fog could stay. If only he wasn’t so cold. 

Thunder crashed suddenly outside. It sounded muffled. He didn’t startle. He felt too heavy to shift even the slightest bit. 

Where was he?

Right. His apartment. 

What time was it?

A rumbling sounded again outside. The fog grew thicker. 

There was different sound this time. A shuffling. Outside his bedroom door. Someone was in his apartment. He should have been alarmed. He should have gotten up at least. He didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to care. All he could think was the fog. All he could see was the rain. All he could feel was the cold.

If it was a murderer, a deep part of him hoped they would make it quick. End this nothingness. He was no use to anyone like this. 

It probably wasn’t a murderer though.

His bedroom door opened. Dick didn’t move a muscle. He barely even felt like he was breathing. 

A weight settled behind him on the edge of his bed. A soft voice called out, “Dick.”

He stayed silent.

“Dick?” a firm hand grasped his shoulder.

The person got up and made their way around to kneel in front of him. A familiar face, marred with concern registered in his vision. They kept their hand on Dick’s shoulder while their eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh, chum.”

Dad.

“Bruce? What ‘re you doin’ ‘n my ‘partment?” he mumbled through frozen lips.

Bruce frowned deeper. The concern on his face grew.

“Son, you’re in the manor. You stayed the night after patrol.”

Oh.

“You were screaming, Dick.”

Oh.

Dick’s eyes unfocused again, and he found himself listlessly staring at the peeling wallpaper just left of Bruce’s intense gaze. Alfred wouldn’t be happy about that.

“I’m sorry,” was what came out when Dick finally spoke. He wasn’t sure what for.

“Don’t apologize,” Bruce reassured.

Don’t.

_Don’t._

_Don’t touch me I’m—_

_Poisonous._

“Dick?”

_Numb._

“Dick!”

The hand on his shoulder tightened, but he barely felt it as he gasped breathlessly. His chest tightened. He couldn’t— he couldn’t—

“Breathe, chum. Come on, what can you feel?”

“Concr— no bed sheets, my— my pillow case,” he ground out.

“Good. Smell?”

“Rai— no...” he tried to stop himself from panicking more, “Sweat... your shampoo.”

The hand moved to gently comb through Dick’s hair as he kept talking, “Now what can you see?”

“You... the wallpaper. It’s peeling. Alfred won’t stand for that.”

Bruce hummed lightly, almost a chuckle. 

“What can you taste? Hear?”

“Salt? And my mouth is dry... I can hear—“ rain, “it’s not raining?”

“It stopped an hour ago.”

Oh.

Bruce lifted his hand, finally, and Dick was embarrassed to find he missed it. It had been a long time since he’d been comforted like that. He wasn’t as fond of touch anymore. It just made him feel colder.

“Sometimes,” he whispered, “I can still feel her.”

“I know, son.”

The _me too_ went unsaid.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hit him and his eyelids drooped. Dick knew Bruce would sit there for hours even after he fell asleep. Staring at that same tear in the wallpaper. Listening to non-existent rain. But when he woke up, Bruce would have already left. It always worked out that way. In the morning they wouldn’t speak of it. Bruce would place a hand on his arm, so briefly it may not have been there at all. They might share a glance, but no more than that.

It was enough for the barest of warmth to return.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> PS: yeah the “me too” thing was referring to Talia, I felt like addressing it in this fic


End file.
